jumping is easy, falling is fun (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} cormallen) wrote,@ 2009-01-06 14:52:00 |
 |
|||
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
FIC: Kiss It Better (I Want You To).
Title: Kiss It Better (I Want You To).
Vague Sam/Dean, pre-series, 740 words, written forrejeneration's prompt of "M&Ms, laughter through tears, some kind of kiss".
The backyard is tiny, overgrown with high, yellowing grass, and the wicker chairs get grayer and grayer every time it rains, but Dean knows he'll find Sam on the back porch anyway, book in his lap, staring out into the tree line.
The screen door creaks loud and shrill as he steps through, but his brother doesn't so much as turn to look, face to the yard, finger tucked between the pages like a bookmark.
"He send you to drag me off, kicking and screaming?"
"Yep," Dean nods, brushes a stray leaf off of the scratchy wicker, pulls the other chair closer and sits down. No use saying anything else when Sammy's like this, rustle of pages, flip-flip-flip, too quick, and he's not even reading, red-rimmed eyes still fixed on something far off in the trees.
The sky's a dull gray, clouds swirling low; Dean's knee aches, and the shop's radio was promising wind and rain as he picked up his last paycheck. He squints, tries to follow where Sam's looking, but there's nothing except swaying branches and pale horizon, so he leans over instead, watches Sam's fingers dance through the pages. The book he's leafing through is missing half its cover and the paper is dark, spotted, faded Milton High School Library stamps starting off each new chapter.
-- they themselves felt, in quite a simple and natural way, that they were different from any other people that they knew, at least -- he glimpses before Sam flips the page and the next one. He wants to ask what class the book had been for, but doesn't, closes his eyes, rests his head against the side of Sam's chair, wicker strands digging into his cheek.
Sound of ripping paper, and "Fuck," Sam grunts; Dean opens his eyes in time to see the book slide from Sam's lap, torn page fluttering out, thin red line on Sam's index finger as he brings it up to his lips.
Paper cut.
"Let me," he says, and Sam turns in his chair, lets Dean lean in and press his mouth to the cut, tongue sliding over the thick knuckle, brief flash of metallic taste before it's gone.
"You think you can just kiss it all better?"
"S'long as you want me to," he shrugs, ignoring the drumming beat of his pulse, and Sam nods, pulling away, gets out of his seat.
"He's not still sitting in the driveway, is he?"
"Nah. Didn't wanna wait to get on the road, said we can catch up in New York. I'll help you finish packing."
"Right."
He pulls Sam's remaining shirts out of the dresser, rolls them up, bundles them into Sam's bag, quick and efficient, checks the bathroom, the living room, switches off the lights in the kitchen, unplugs the fridge. Sam watches him, leaning against the doorjamb, one too-long strand of hair hanging down into his face. Doesn't say a word until all the bags are in the trunk and Dean's got the keys in the ignition and then they're rounding the corner, going, going, gone.
"Whatdja get this time?"
"What do you mean, what did I get?"
"You always get the fucking road trip junk, jerky and candy bars and peanuts in a bag and I understand it, I really do, but, Dean. It's not ever going to feel like a road trip, ok? It's just not. So, stop trying."
"Fine, then." he says, airily as he can, foot sinking onto the pedal. "You don't get any M&Ms. Or jerky. More for me."
The first drops of rain pattern the windshield and make the pavement glint. Over on the passenger side, Sam's ripping into the candy packet, crinkling the bag of jerky. He reaches over, grabs a handful of candy and shoves it into his mouth before Sam can slap his hand away.
"Shit, we forgot your book," he says when the M&Ms are gone and Sam's rolled up the bag with the remaining jerky and shoved it in the glove box. "I'm sorry."
"It's ok," Sam says, wiping his palms on his jeans. "Wasn't mine, anyway. Dean?"
"Yeah," Dean grunts, turning up the wipers; it's really starting to come down, water like gray sheets and thunder rumbling somewhere in the distance.
Sam's hand covers his on the steering wheel, index finger tracing over his, pale little line of broken skin barely visible by the knuckle.
"Kiss it better. I want you to."
Title: Kiss It Better (I Want You To).
Vague Sam/Dean, pre-series, 740 words, written for
rejeneration's prompt of "M&Ms, laughter through tears, some kind of kiss". The backyard is tiny, overgrown with high, yellowing grass, and the wicker chairs get grayer and grayer every time it rains, but Dean knows he'll find Sam on the back porch anyway, book in his lap, staring out into the tree line.
The screen door creaks loud and shrill as he steps through, but his brother doesn't so much as turn to look, face to the yard, finger tucked between the pages like a bookmark.
"He send you to drag me off, kicking and screaming?"
"Yep," Dean nods, brushes a stray leaf off of the scratchy wicker, pulls the other chair closer and sits down. No use saying anything else when Sammy's like this, rustle of pages, flip-flip-flip, too quick, and he's not even reading, red-rimmed eyes still fixed on something far off in the trees.
The sky's a dull gray, clouds swirling low; Dean's knee aches, and the shop's radio was promising wind and rain as he picked up his last paycheck. He squints, tries to follow where Sam's looking, but there's nothing except swaying branches and pale horizon, so he leans over instead, watches Sam's fingers dance through the pages. The book he's leafing through is missing half its cover and the paper is dark, spotted, faded Milton High School Library stamps starting off each new chapter.
-- they themselves felt, in quite a simple and natural way, that they were different from any other people that they knew, at least -- he glimpses before Sam flips the page and the next one. He wants to ask what class the book had been for, but doesn't, closes his eyes, rests his head against the side of Sam's chair, wicker strands digging into his cheek.
Sound of ripping paper, and "Fuck," Sam grunts; Dean opens his eyes in time to see the book slide from Sam's lap, torn page fluttering out, thin red line on Sam's index finger as he brings it up to his lips.
Paper cut.
"Let me," he says, and Sam turns in his chair, lets Dean lean in and press his mouth to the cut, tongue sliding over the thick knuckle, brief flash of metallic taste before it's gone.
"You think you can just kiss it all better?"
"S'long as you want me to," he shrugs, ignoring the drumming beat of his pulse, and Sam nods, pulling away, gets out of his seat.
"He's not still sitting in the driveway, is he?"
"Nah. Didn't wanna wait to get on the road, said we can catch up in New York. I'll help you finish packing."
"Right."
He pulls Sam's remaining shirts out of the dresser, rolls them up, bundles them into Sam's bag, quick and efficient, checks the bathroom, the living room, switches off the lights in the kitchen, unplugs the fridge. Sam watches him, leaning against the doorjamb, one too-long strand of hair hanging down into his face. Doesn't say a word until all the bags are in the trunk and Dean's got the keys in the ignition and then they're rounding the corner, going, going, gone.
"Whatdja get this time?"
"What do you mean, what did I get?"
"You always get the fucking road trip junk, jerky and candy bars and peanuts in a bag and I understand it, I really do, but, Dean. It's not ever going to feel like a road trip, ok? It's just not. So, stop trying."
"Fine, then." he says, airily as he can, foot sinking onto the pedal. "You don't get any M&Ms. Or jerky. More for me."
The first drops of rain pattern the windshield and make the pavement glint. Over on the passenger side, Sam's ripping into the candy packet, crinkling the bag of jerky. He reaches over, grabs a handful of candy and shoves it into his mouth before Sam can slap his hand away.
"Shit, we forgot your book," he says when the M&Ms are gone and Sam's rolled up the bag with the remaining jerky and shoved it in the glove box. "I'm sorry."
"It's ok," Sam says, wiping his palms on his jeans. "Wasn't mine, anyway. Dean?"
"Yeah," Dean grunts, turning up the wipers; it's really starting to come down, water like gray sheets and thunder rumbling somewhere in the distance.
Sam's hand covers his on the steering wheel, index finger tracing over his, pale little line of broken skin barely visible by the knuckle.
"Kiss it better. I want you to."